Sleepless
by Quietly Making Noise
Summary: Young Loki can't sleep... Fortunately the sea goddess Rán is on hand with a plan. Mischief ensues. Character exploration; one shot; concrit much appreciated


Young!Loki can't sleep... One-shot. Foreshadowing. Sea goddesses.

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The sleep wolf was not coming tonight. The ice nightmare had frightened it off. And his brother's snoring from the next room was definitely not helping, even after getting up twice to pinch his nose and watch him wriggle and snort like a piglet. The soft rug welcomed his feet as he climbed down from the bed for a third time. He sat down and pulled on his house boots and tunic, then stood up and left a copy of himself in the bed. Then the little dark prince walked calmly and silently out of the bedroom and down the corridor.

Mother and father were sleeping, father snoring as usual. The young prince stole to the bedside table on his mother's side of the bed, and swapped all the objects with those on the table on his father's side, taking care to position everything exactly. For good measure, he swapped the drawers too. Miscellaneous objects rattled inside, and his mother nearly awoke during this process, but the young prince was learning fast, and with a wave of his lengthening fingers, he spelled her gently back into sleep. The touch of her mind was comforting, and he half wanted to stay there with her, but then his prank would be discovered too early. It was a simple trick, but the tiny thrill of power it left him with was invigorating. He left and closed the door in silence.

The guest rooms were empty. He passed quickly through the main hall and down the steps, and slipped into the maze of servant corridors. His immediate plan was to find the kitchen and pilfer something to nibble, before causing a bit of mischief in the pantry. Swapping labels, perhaps, or turning the ale into vinegar again. He grinned in the dark at the memory of the first time he had tried that one. The expression on Volstagg's father's face had been priceless, and that time no one had been able to prove it was him.

'Hungry, my prince?'

He froze, then turned with boyish self-assurance. An older, taller, stronger woman was leaning against the wall of an adjoining passage. She appeared to be dressed in day clothes: rippling fabrics held in place by greenish armour, and a prickly headband of pale coral holding her blue-grey hair from her face.

'Who cares to know?'

The woman's expression did not change, but there was a sound like a thousand bubbles bursting, and a cold chicken leg appeared in the air in front of the prince's face. His sharp eyes widened.

'A gift. From the goddess of dark water and thievery to the little god of mischief.'

The prince reached up to take the leg. 'Ah so you're Lady Rán. Thank you. Father told me you have a magical net. May I see it?'

Rán snorted a quiet laugh. 'One day, perhaps. I gather rest is evading you this night my prince.'

'Yes. My brother won't stop snoring.' Gnawing at the pale meat, it was not difficult to keep his nightmare private for the moment. Rán put her smooth hand on his shoulder and attempted to steer him away down the passage, but the little god of mischief shook her off. 'Wait, this needs salt...'

He ran back to the pantry and ducked inside, holding the leg bone in one hand and flickering the other through the jars and baskets. In the end he settled for making the cabbages look like fish heads. He grinned to himself in the dark and ran back to join Rán.

God and goddess walked together in silence down and out of one of the back doors, and through one of the gardens. The Asgardian sky, with its stars and clouds of pale dust, was beginning to lighten. The dark prince hadn't realised how close to daylight it was. He paced quietly alongside the sea goddess, following her up to a high terrace which overlooked part of the city. Below there was a pool of water, its fountains asleep like the rest of the people. The dark prince climbed up onto the stone railing and crouched on his haunches. He aimed, and threw the chicken leg bone down, where it jammed in one of the fountain spouts. Lady Rán snorted quietly again in amusement, and the prince grinned.

'What's your favourite thing to steal, Lady Rán?'

The goddess did not need to think for long. 'The souls of young Midgardian men. It's always a struggle. Sometimes they escape, through circumstances beyond my control. But mostly, once they feel the salt water seep into their bones, my net closes around them.'

'What about lovers?'

'Ah, now, drowning lovers are the worst. It takes me days to repair the damage to the net. And it leaves a kind of... fuzzy residue.'

'Do you ever let the sharks get them?'

'Sometimes.'

'Does it work in all the realms?'

'Yes.'

'Can you catch anything in your net?'

'Anything. You are curious and wide-eyed, my Prince. There is little you do not see.'

'I shall take that as a compliment.'

'It was meant as one.'

'Father tells me I think too much.'

'Well, perhaps you should consider striking a more even balance between thinking and doing.'

'Thor is the do-er,' said the prince morosely, sitting down and wrapping his arms around his knees. 'Thor is stronger and faster than I.'

'But you are clever and have a gift for spell craft. Between the two of you, my prince, you make a formidable opponent for any enemy of Asgard. You are two sides of one warrior.'

The prince remained silent, rocking slightly with his head laid on top of his knees. 'At least I don't snore.'

Rán laughed her voiceless laugh, and the Prince smiled. The goddess touched his little shoulder. 'Come, if it please your highness. I would like to show you something.'

She led the god of mischief swiftly through the palace, down through the town, and along the Bifrost, using little bursts of wave magic to speed their steps. The prince delighted in the touch of the spell, and was trying to work out how to perform it himself while Rán spoke with Heimdall. The goddess kept her hand on his shoulder while they passed through the gate and rocketed down to Midgard.

As always, the brutal physicality of the middle realm caught the young prince off guard, and only Rán's hand kept him from falling out of her spell and down into the deep water. He staggered and stumbled backwards into her, and kept one hand embedded in her long robe while she flew them over the water. They were floating above the ocean, shooting over the waves towards a miserable looking spit of land, all sand and scrub. Rán took them down to the ground. The god of mischief impulsively crafted salt into a nearby barrel of drinking water.

God and goddess moved through the empty streets, heading towards a large high-roofed hall. Muffled sounds of laughter and talk drifted through the wood. The sea goddess of thievery waved her hand slowly over the young prince's head, and his silky Asgardian clothing took on the appearance of rough woollen human clothes, as did hers. Still guiding him with a hand on her shoulder, they passed through the doors.

The celebration was in full swing, but no one was dancing yet. The young prince looked with wide eyes from stinky human to stinky human. There was lots of eating and drinking going on at the sides of the hall, and the centre had been cleared. A few people holding fiddles were gathered at the far end, behind a long high table where the feast-givers were sitting. A young man and a young woman were in the centre, holding hands. On one side, two little girls, sisters or cousins perhaps, were stirring something pale coloured in little cups, and giggling.

'It's a wedding,' realised the prince out loud.

'Yes. Watch.'

A lone fiddle played a tune through, the first part short and sweet, the second longer and yearning. The new couple downed a shot each of the pale strange drink, pulled faces which made the god of mischief grin widely, then went awkwardly to the centre of the hall. As the rest of the fiddles took up the tune and started to fill out the music with lower notes and harmonies, they danced together.

'This is the Sweet,' explained Rán quietly. 'There will be two more: the Sour, and the Bitter. Each has its own tune, and its own drink.'

'Who mixes the drinks?'

'Usually an ex-lover or a younger sister. It's revolting stuff, but it's payback time. '

The little giggling girls were already busy with the second drink: sour. The families and friends were cheering loudly and whooping as the couple whirled and spun. The dance did not last long. The couple returned to the table amid applause and cheering, and with apprehension took up their little cups again. The god of mischief flicked his fingers, and when the bride sniffed her cup gingerly she smelled blackberries and honey. The couple toasted one another and threw back the concoctions. The bride gagged instantly, and the little prince snickered to himself.

White faced, the two humans took position again in the centre of the hall, and the fiddles began to play once more. The tune was the same structure, but the short part was frayed, and the longer part wept. The god of mischief found his smile fading and his attention coming to focus. Once more the couple danced and once more the other fiddles provided depth to the simple tune, but this time the young prince could not draw himself out of the music. The Sour wrapped vines around his limbs and chest and pulled and swayed him. His cleverness went to work untangling the various harmonies and flicks in the tune, and his usually sparking magic calmed to a glow of contentment. He barely felt Rán's hand on his shoulder, and barely realised that he was leaning more and more of his weight on her. The robe and coat of the bride and groom seemed to melt together.

Rán stooped fluidly as the prince dropped and caught him up in her strong arms. It seemed the music had combined correctly with the lulling spell entangled in the clothes she had crafted for him, and it had worked. Unheeded by the human beings, she carried him out. Behind her the dance finished, and the bride went running out of a side door to vomit in the sand.

The prince remained quiet in sleep even through the trip back to Asgard. Rán coasted quickly back along the Bifrost and handed the sleeping prince over to a palace retainer, then went out towards the stables.

The retainer got the fright of his life when the young prince in his arms opened his bright eyes and wriggled free, with all the tiredness of an excited squirrel. 'Pah. She thought she could spell me asleep. So obvious. No one could see us anyway so there was no need to change clothes.'

'Your highness! Really, you must go to bed my lord... And it was not kind of you to deceive the Lady Rán so.'

'I'll remind you that _she's_ the one who tried to trick me into sleeping. I got a good trip out of it though, and a new spell. You can go now. I'm going to stay awake.'

'… Very good my lord,' said the retainer tightly, and left with a bow.

Loki wandered alone through the gardens, and climbed the steps up to the outer wall. He felt more awake than ever, and amused himself by practising the clothing spell, first on himself, then on passing people in the street below. Wool was easy, but it turned out that flowing fabrics were much harder. He would need to practise this.

Dawn broke over the towers. In his bed, the sleeping copy faded into dust motes. And in his head, the Sour still echoed, flicking and leaping its notes through his mind, like a swift darting through the air.


End file.
